


The Father, the Son, and the Thirsty Host

by ingafterdark (ingthing)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Afternoon Tea, And Aziraphale takes his sweet time with it, Aziraphale Has No Genitalia (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Discipline, Established Relationship, Exacting Standards, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), In this house we wreck Crowley, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Not at the same time, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Tea Parties, Telepathy, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingthing/pseuds/ingafterdark
Summary: Aziraphale invites Crowley for a proper afternoon tea. It doesn’t end up quite as proper as Crowley expects.Created for the Oh Lord Heal This Server 2019 Gift Exchange.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 297
Collections: O Lord Heal This Gift Exchange





	The Father, the Son, and the Thirsty Host

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fairyglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairyglass/gifts).



> This fic is for Fairyglass, who keeps enabling my Victorian shenanigans and whom I love for it<3
> 
> The prompt was “Dom/BAMF Aziraphale has Standards for Edwardian High Tea. Crowley hasn’t been taking this whole thing as seriously as Aziraphale feels he ought, so he takes matters into his own hands.”
> 
> I primarily consulted _Afternoon Tea: A History and Guide to the Great Edwardian Tradition_ by Vicky Straker for this fic, as well as various other sources on Victorian/Edwardian etiquette. Given that high tea was what workers would have coming home from a day on the job (replacing dinner and including heartier fare including meat and bread and soup) and was subject to fewer “standards,” I’ve opted for afternoon tea. 
> 
> Edwardian teatime was also apparently less strict than Victorian teatime, with Edward VII’s reign ushering in new looser teatime attire as well as a reputation for tea-side extramarital affairs in the upper classes. (If you know anything about Edward VII, you probably are aware he was an infamous playboy and drove his parents crazy with his scandals.) That’s a sufficiently saucy set-up for this romp I’ve written, I think!
> 
> TL;DR, Enjoy the smut!

There was a letter in Crowley's mailbox.

An honest-to-goodness, snail mail stamped and posted letter _._ The demon persuaded it out of the mailbox, up the lift and into his apartment, and then it was on his desk, stark white against mahogany. Since he'd redirected all his spam mail and newsletters to his neighbour's address and made all his bills digital-only, his mailbox had been spotless save for flyers from the mediocre pizza shop on the corner that always seemed to crop up regardless of Crowley's interference.

The envelope, of course, was addressed from one "A. Z. Fell" in textbook-perfect copperplate script. In an instant, Crowley had the letter out and in his hand. It was on nice paper—cream hued, with a striped grain—nothing Aziraphale typically kept around the shop. If they had to pass notes, they were often scrawled on any old quadrilateral of paper or vellum or parchment they had lying around. And that blue-black ink… No, this letter was something else entirely. 

As he scanned Aziraphale's goody-goody handwriting, Crowley realised it was an invitation for afternoon tea in precisely one week's time.

It was unheard of for the angel to host anything involving more catering than his wine cellar could provide, and Crowley turned the letter over, seeking more answers. When that proved unfruitful, he reached for the coil-wired phone that sat on the corner of his desk. It dialled without prompting, and the angel picked up a moment later.

"I'm afraid we are quite definitely—"

"You sent me a _letter_ ," Crowley said, more of a question than a statement.

"I hardly think that's unusual," Aziraphale quipped with the tone of an angel very assured in his methods. He'd been expecting this call, evidently. "People still send invitations by post."

"There's a reason why most of them don't anymore. You could've just called. And we don't even have to dial."

"Now where's the charm in that?" The angel sniffed. Crowley could practically see the upturn of his nose in the air, like the peak of a fussier Mount Everest. "I'd like your response in the mail, of course."

Crowley frowned at the receiver. "I'm _talking_ to you."

"It's good manners, Crowley. Now, be a dear and _répondez, s'il vous plaît._ " 

The demon balked but acquiesced after a beat. "Fine. Are we still on for dinner tonight, then?"

"But of course," Aziraphale lilted, delight seeming to ooze from the speaker against Crowley's ear. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll see you later, my dear."

There was a click, and Crowley was left with more questions than answers. He grumbled as he pulled out some stationery and a fountain pen that hadn't seen the light of day since the proliferation of the telephone. He should have known that, even on their own side, he would never be free of his angel's eccentricities.

  
  


Seven days passed with more anticipation than Crowley would like to admit, and he found himself ushered into the bookshop to a peculiar sight.

"Aziraphale," he remarked as the angel bustled off to hang his black jacket, "what is this?"

Past the sheltered alcove of the entryway, right in the middle of the circular rug that mirrored the oculus several stories above them, stood a table draped with a damask ivory cloth. Upon it, a sterling-silver tea set and delicate gold, white and burgundy porcelain formed two place settings. Crowley was certain he'd only seen them behind the glass-paned doors of Aziraphale's decorative china cabinet, and never in actual use. When the angel took tea, or more often cocoa, he preferred the larger winged mug Crowley had gifted him some years earlier.

"I invited you for tea, didn't I?" Aziraphale said, rejoining Crowley to pull out the mahogany dining chair for him. "This is it." 

Wordlessly, Crowley sat, befuddled by the spread on the table before him and then by Aziraphale's appearance. 

The angel had changed into a different jacket—the soft, oatmeal-coloured garment he wore around the shop was replaced. Instead, Aziraphale wore a smoking jacket in a deep brown velvet that gleamed reddish in the diffused daylight. Inky braid trimmed along the edges of quilted lapels the colour of burnished gold, and they overlapped in a plunging vee down to his waist, nipping in there with elegant black frog closures. Aziraphale was no less buttoned up than before and Crowley had certainly seen more of the angel's shirt and waistcoat than this, but Crowley's mind tripped over the carpet of Aziraphale's attire as the angel sat opposite him. He rarely dressed in dark colours, but it was a welcome sight. He looked opulent, and a little dangerous. 

"So," Crowley said once he'd metaphorically scrambled to his feet, "teatime."

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed, folding his hands together in front of himself. "You may recall, Crowley, that several weeks ago we went out for tea just like this."

"Claridge's. 'Course I remember."

The angel smiled, but it was tinged with the pity of a schoolteacher's reprimand. Crowley frowned, displeased by the angel's displeasure but not knowing how he'd caused it. "You see, that outing brought to my attention the… the differences in decorum between you and I."

"Decorum," Crowley repeated flatly. That was a new one—Aziraphale hadn't brought it up before, if it did bother him. They'd shared how many meals together?

"Yes, decorum. Etiquette," Aziraphale clarified with a raise of his brows. "So I thought I ought to teach you how one must act during tea. For one thing, you didn't thank me when I pulled that chair out for you. And now you're sprawling." He lifted his head, literally looking down his nose at Crowley who was slouched in his seat as usual. "Unseemly behaviour, even for a demon."

Crowley barely managed to suppress a hiss as he stayed exactly where he was. This condescension was all too familiar, and it prickled in a not, altogether, unpleasant way. "S'the point of being a demon. Being unseemly."

"I won't have it," Aziraphale declared, and there was a boom in his voice that had Crowley laced up like a puppet. His body sat straight of its own accord, and his eyes grew wide behind dark sunglasses as Aziraphale gave him a coy grin. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it? Now we might see eye to eye."

The angel took the teapot by its covered handle and carefully poured Crowley, then himself, cups of tea. It's Darjeeling, or Assam, or something else entirely—Crowley's senses weren't exactly trained on that lightly astringent aroma at the moment. His brain tripped ahead. "Tea before milk?" He asked, latching onto something else to talk about.

"As it should be." 

"I'd always thought it was milk first." 

"That's for those of us who don't use bone china, my dear," Aziraphale explained as he picked up the creamer. "I once knew a lady who would have guests banned from the grounds for even breaching the subject. You're certainly in an audacious mood."

"I'm always audacious," Crowley drawled, taking a long, pointed sip of his near-scalding beverage. Perhaps he'd been blacklisted by that very same lady, once upon an era—it certainly explained his apparently atrocious teatime _decorum_. He peered at Aziraphale over the rim of his cup, and the angel's pleasant smile dropped.

"It's rude to look in the eyes of your fellow tea-drinkers as you partake" Aziraphale told him, having replaced the little silver pitcher with a downturn of his lips. How Aziraphale could tell with his sunglasses still solidly in place, Crowley didn't know. It was probably instinct, at this point.

"Sorry," Crowley muttered half-heartedly as the teacup left his mouth. Aziraphale gave him another gently admonishing look, and he added, "won't do it again."

"Thank you," Aziraphale said, softening. The edges of his eyes crinkled the way Crowley liked, and the demon's heart quickened traitorously. "You're so very good to me, Crowley, indulging my whims."

"Manners are manners," Crowley deflected, taking another sip of leaf water to belie his fluster. "S'nothing." 

It felt odd to sit properly at a table, and Aziraphale's behaviour was odder still. It had Crowley on guard, his awareness snapped to Aziraphale's every movement like a magnet finding its mark. Aziraphale did that endearing up-down-up glance of his with a cheeky little smile as he reached for a scone. Before Crowley registered it, he was staring as Aziraphale delivered a cream and jam laden morsel to his mouth. The angel's pleased hum was one that Crowley felt more than heard, and suddenly arousal stirred in his gut. It was not quelled in the least when some clotted cream remained on the pink of Aziraphale's lips, not quite but still too reminiscent of other, less tea-appropriate substances.

Something was wrong with Crowley, there had to be. In no demon's right mind should one be turned on by a little dairy—but he supposed it wasn't just that. Aziraphale was unruffled and more assertive than ever: confidence, bless it all, was _hot_.

"You're staring again," Aziraphale said with a hint of amusement. "Would you like to tell me what's so interesting about my face?"

"Nothing," Crowley blurted before correcting himself. "No, not nothing—s'a good face, it really is. I got distracted. You were saying?" Hell, his cheeks felt warm.

The angel gave him a knowing look. "I wasn't saying anything. You really ought not to stare so, my dear."

Crowley made a simple grunt of agreement and occupied himself with inspecting the spread on the table. There was an appealing little platter of sandwiches fanned in a circle, and he shoved one into his mouth, barely chewing before he gulped it down, to avoid verbally making even more of a fool of himself. Predictably, this backfired.

"Dear Lord, Crowley," Aziraphale sighed. "I would take you for a glutton, if I didn't know better." Crowley was about to retort when Aziraphale picked up a sandwich for himself, balancing the triangle of bread between three fingers. "Take a piece and this time, you'll do as I do. Watch me."

The demon did watch, his own sandwich held up to his lips. Aziraphale bit one corner off with deliberate slowness, meeting Crowley's gaze as he did so. Then, he chewed, the fluttering shut of his eyelashes almost theatrical. Crowley followed suit, glad to have something to do besides cross his legs tighter and gawk, and was surprised by the filling—it was creamy and tasted of the ocean. 

"Isn't the experience so much more enjoyable when you take the time to savour your food?" Aziraphale asked, once he was done gormandising. "You know I do so enjoy oysters."

"Uhuh," Crowley replied dumbly, having swallowed the mouthful. He had no real opinions formed on the filling or oysters in general. Aziraphale liked them, and that's really all the opinion Crowley could muster that didn't involve wanting to jump the angel's bones. How could something as banal as eating a _finger_ _sandwich_ be so erotic? It was that blasted confidence again. Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his burgeoning erection cramped in his jeans from being seated so properly. 

They finished their sandwiches that way, languid bites, gratuitous eye contact and all. The demon felt hot under his collar even though he'd already taken his jacket off. He chose to blame this warmth on the sun which poured light down onto them from the oculus above, rather than the dirty thoughts which had him at the edge of his seat in anticipation—no, expectation. Aziraphale was up to something, and Crowley was caught in the cross hairs of his aim.

Satisfied that Crowley had passed with flying colours, the angel smiled warmly, reaching across the table to hold the demon's hand where it lay clenched on the tablecloth. Crowley's breath caught in his throat.

"That was perfection, Crowley," Aziraphale beamed, as though managing to eat a quartered sandwich in four bites instead of one were some Herculean feat. The demon flushed under the praise all the same. As quickly as it had arrived, Aziraphale's hand left as he got back to the business of enjoying his tea.

It was nonchalant, the way he broke off another piece of scone and dipped his knife into the small dishes of preserves and clotted cream. But Crowley's gaze—Aziraphale knew it was trained solely on him, he had to with the way he glanced to see if it was still where he'd left it, hanging in the air. As rude as he had made staring out to be, the angel was now making no attempt to stop it. If Crowley didn't know better, he would daresay that Aziraphale enjoyed such attention.

He might even think that Aziraphale's concern for "manners" was an elaborate ruse to get him hot and flustered. Oh, the _bastard._

So Crowley stared. He stared hard, loading his eyes with all the allure and challenge he could. To make his point ( _he knew Aziraphale's game, knew where the road was headed)_ better known, he removed his sunglasses, folding them and placing them just beside his saucer. They were alone here, and Crowley would do as much blatant one-sided eye-fucking as he pleased. 

_Look here, angel. This is the look of a being who would let you have whatever you want, if only you said the word. (You could meet my eyes, feel blood rise to as my gaze skims every inch of your skin, over and under the velvet and cotton encasing your body, which I already know. It could be more than these eyes, more than just these hands.)_ Crowley thumbed the dainty curl at the crest of his teacup's handle, a mimicry of the slow circle of his finger on living, heaving flesh. 

In a way he must have thought to be discreet, Aziraphale feigned ignorance. The demon was attuned to desire, so he knew better: Aziraphale was faltering. (But then, so was Crowley, to have turned to _Temptation 101_. His trousers really had become quite cramped—tapping from the angel's wants, which were in turn his own, was a double edged sword he still stumbled to wield.)

"Don't think your ogling will get you anywhere." Aziraphale dabbed a napkin at his lips with a familiar loftiness. 

"I'm already where I want to be," Crowley said, shrugging as he continued to ogle.

"You're incorrigible." 

"I'm known to be."

"And here I thought I'd be rewarding your good behaviour," Aziraphale sighed. He paused, letting the implications of that statement sink in as he poured another cup of tea for himself. 

Crowley gaped, then shut his mouth. "Rewarding?" He asked, keeping his voice as level and not-at-all-interested as possible. He was probably failing, if the angel's smirk was anything to go by.

"It's only fair, given you've been such a quick study. I had thought," Aziraphale trailed off momentarily, then paused for dramatic effect. ( _Bastard.)_ "That I would give you more of an incentive—that you'd like it if I showed my appreciation for your efforts in some other way." 

Something like a gasp caught in Crowley's throat and fell out as a choked noise. He both hated and loved being right about Aziraphale's intentions—on the one hand, he loved knowing the angel well enough to predict his course of action. On the other, Crowley's imagination often got the best of him, bringing visceral desire to the surface where Aziraphale could relentlessly skip stones across it, each ripple stronger than the last. 

"Suppose I were to have you in my lap," Aziraphale continued, a deliberate composure to his tone, "I could tell you how well you've been doing, murmur it into your chest as I slake your baser needs with my hands." Crowley did something in his seat that couldn't be described as anything but squirming, and Aziraphale's gaze sparkled with knowing. "Or maybe I could have you on the table, press myself against all of you so you fully feel, and not just hear, my gratitude."

That sounded good. Better than good, really. Crowley practically ached, full-body ached, at the prospect of escalating their afternoon. He was vaguely aware his mind-to-mouth translation had malfunctioned, but it had always been temperamental anyway.

Aziraphale sat up, the forward lean he'd fallen into only apparent when he moved back. He straightened his jacket. "Of course, it wouldn't do to let our tea go to waste. I did go to great lengths to conjure this spread—"

"I'll wait," Crowley interjected. "You—you enjoy. The rest of it."

"And you'll wait, my dear," Aziraphale confirmed, his hands folded solidly on the table, steel-blue eyes boring into the expanding yellow of Crowley's. "And you'll abide by what I've taught you until I'm satisfied."

There was no question. Crowley's legs stayed tightly crossed, the throbbing between them somehow sweeter knowing Aziraphale had shed the timidity that once plagued him and taken the reins. He kept them taut with mere words, pulling on Crowley's will in preparation for—for _something_ , and Crowley didn't know if he was ready for it.

He would wait through every sip, every hum, every blessed bite, until Aziraphale unfolded his plan for him.

  
  


The teapot seemed as though it would never empty, never drain into the angel's cup as it might to signify the end of a regular meal. And then it _did_ , all at once. The napkin draped over Aziraphale's lap was folded and set aside on the table, not a speck on it despite having been in contact with his lips, and Crowley felt like—like one of those coiled, slinky toys staring down a staircase, ready to be tipped over the first step and tumbled right to the end. To be at the mercy of the ever-present, unstoppable force opposite him.

When Aziraphale beckoned, Crowley all but clambered over to be pulled into his lap by his sure, solid hands. They ran over the denim taut over Crowley's splayed thighs and the bulge between them, and he squirmed into the contact. 

"Dear boy—look at you," Aziraphale murmured, placing stilling palms on Crowley's hips and regarding his prominent arousal with a gratified smile. "However did you stay still so long, with your body aching like this?"

Crowley didn't know either. Thumbs rubbed, teasing, over the inside seam of Crowley's jeans and he muttered, "told you I'd wait."

"So you have." Aziraphale's eyes followed up the front of Crowley's torso till they burned promise into Crowley's own. They must have bled yellow right to the corners, fixated as he was on fulfilling the angel's wishes against the surge of his desire. Whatever Aziraphale saw there caused his smile to crinkle the edges of his eyes further. "I suppose I had better reward you now. That _was_ my end of the bargain, after all." 

Crowley hissed out a "yes" as Aziraphale ran a finger down the line of the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, releasing them from their holes immediately. The garments fell away so Aziraphale could access Crowley's feverish skin. He stroked along the demon's skin-over-bone flanks and tilted his head up in request. Never one to let an opportunity go to waste, Crowley leaned forward and their lips were locked together, his hands cupping Aziraphale's nape as he relished the familiar slide of their kiss. He'd been starved of this, and he never seemed to realise it until they were kissing again—hot, wet, _ooh, your tongue there, yes angel,_ rough and soft all at once, moaning, that headiness saturating his brain—

Aziraphale took Crowley's chin, parting from him with an inhale that was too composed to be a gasp. Crowley almost whined but gaped instead, seeing now that they'd parted that Aziraphale had gone ahead and vanished the demon's clothes entirely. He was bare, the wool of Aziraphale's trousers and the linen napkin draped over them against his buttocks and his cock flushed and hard on the fine velvet of Aziraphale's jacket. Enthralling, _obscene,_ the light streaming in overhead making the scene even more vivid. 

"You don't mind, do you?" Aziraphale asked, though it was with confidence that said he knew Crowley far from minded. "I thought I'd expedite things; you know I can never wait to see all of you—my beautiful demon." His fingers trailed down Crowley's throat as it bobbed with a thick swallow. Aziraphale was taking his sweet time, and Crowley tensed with anticipation as his touch trailed downwards over the jut of his collarbone to rest on his sternum. "Beautiful," Aziraphale repeated, real reverence in his voice. "I can scarcely believe you answer only to me."

That was the way it had always been, as far as Crowley was concerned, but to hear that fact spoken plainly was different from just knowing it. He shuddered, making a broken noise in the back of his throat. His hands scrambled for Aziraphale's lapels but the angel caught his wrists. 

"This is your reward Crowley, I won't have you lifting a finger. Put your elbows on the table, please," Aziraphale instructed sweetly, guiding the demon's arms. (Crowley might have made a joke about elbows on the table being poor form, but he was too preoccupied.) At the slightest clink of china, Aziraphale added, "and mind the tableware—I've kept it in tiptop condition for over two hundred years, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Crowley put his weight onto his elbows and felt his face go hotter at the sight of himself laid out for the figurative (or perhaps _literal_ ) taking. "Angel," he pleaded, throbbing when Aziraphale simply sat and admired, his hands barely a smoothing balm along Crowley's sides. He looked at Crowley with such tenderness, such open wanting, it was almost unbearable. But bear it Crowley would, and he cursed when Aziraphale finally, finally closed fingers around the base of his cock and stroked up and down. Languidly, slow friction making every nerve sing. _Fuck, yes, please._

Aziraphale hummed when Crowley ground his hips, both the warmth of Aziraphale's hand and the firmness of his thigh underneath making the demon pant. A low simmer, reducing his desperation into a deep, treacle-like pleasure. Oh, Crowley could keep this up forever, just sitting here grinding into his angel's lap. He really could, if Aziraphale wanted. Too soon, that grip left him and Crowley opened his eyes to follow it with a displeased grunt.

"Aziraphale…" 

"I know dear, I know. You were enjoying that," Aziraphale apologised, tilting his head with those doe-eyes Crowley could never resist. "But I—oh, you know me. I can't be left alone with something so delectable set out before me and not sample it. I've been thinking about _this_ ," he drew his thumb up the curve of Crowley's cock, collecting some of the fluid that had run down it and very nearly making Crowley discorporate, "for a good while now. The feel of you, your taste on my tongue. I was thinking—"

"Yes. You don't even need to ask, yes," Crowley blurted, words tripping out in haste. 

He expected to be slid off Aziraphale's lap, or perhaps backed up so he would be sitting on the table. He did not expect for Aziraphale to lift him from the backs of his knees, unseating him, and guide his dangling feet over velvet-clad shoulders and the low chair-back. Crowley's weight shifted into his forearms, and he kept them locked in place because he'd fall if he didn't. The view between his thighs (as though being manhandled weren't enough) certainly threatened to turn all his limbs into jelly—Aziraphale's head was sandwiched there, one hand holding the base of Crowley's erection delicately as he waited for Crowley's full attention. He had one eyebrow cocked, and he looked the very picture of a cat that had gotten the cream, if one considered a dizzyingly aroused demon "cream." 

He also seemed to be thinking again—a foreign thing to Crowley, since he'd given up on that about an hour ago.

"You know I love you," Aziraphale said, breath grazing Crowley's shaft. 

Crowley knew, of course. It had been drilled into him by this point. He replied with a pitchy, "mhm."

"And I do truly, thoroughly enjoy sucking you off," Aziraphale continued, "really, there's nothing like it."

"Uhuh." Crowley's arms were starting to feel the weight of him, and he gripped the edge of the table for support.

"And you make such a fine picture, spread out like this for me. But it's been quite a while since I've had the privilege of pleasuring your other effort. Would you bring it out?" The unfettered tone with which Aziraphale made this request somehow made Crowley's face turn five shades redder. When he gaped back like an extremely titillated fish ( _do fish get aroused? Must do, that's how they make other fish_ ), Aziraphale looked at him through his eyelashes and licked his lips before making his request clear. "Make a cunt for me, darling."

"Remodelling" partway through was never quite the same as from the beginning—something about crossed wires and the lack of a mirror to look in. This meant Crowley's clit didn't get quite as small as he'd usually make it. It poked just above the outer lips of his cunt, a little more exposed and sensitive than if from scratch. Aziraphale had been nothing less than enthusiastic the first time they'd done this, so Crowley never changed a thing.

He sucked in a breath and made an attempt at replying before deciding his energy would be better spent doing as he was told. He concentrated, and Aziraphale's hand on his cock sank lower, softer, until it rested on his pubic mound on top of a mess of wiry dark hairs that were wet with the evidence of his wanting. A frisson of heat tingled through his groin and made Crowley utterly breathless. It really had been too long—all sensation was seated deeper this way, and even the angel's approving exhale drew a gasp from him as it ghosted over his swollen new flesh. 

"Oh, you're lovely," Aziraphale breathed, his voice laden with desire as he applied gentle pressure to Crowley's mons.

Then, he licked, smooth and wet and broad over the length of his vulva, and Crowley's head fell back as he gave a shaky groan. Oh, hell. Oh, _hell._

It was frankly a blur from there.

Aziraphale laved his tongue, miraculously slick, up and along the sides of the demon's labia, surprising pressure igniting the nerves under the surface. That was what was happening outwardly, anyway. 

Crowley felt so good he could hardly stand it. With every pass, he made shattered sobs that were tinged with bliss, his arms shook, and his shoulders ached with the exertion of keeping himself propped up. Those smooth pink lips closed over his clit, tongue pulsing gently on the underside, and Crowley cried out, curling into himself. His legs pulled him flush to Aziraphale's mouth forcefully, the angel's nose pressing into his pubic hair with an encouraging moan.

When Crowley's muscles twinged, he had to pause. "My arms, I can't," he gulped. Surely Aziraphale could feel the table shuddering under the demon's elbows.

 _"Lie down, my dear. I'll hold you."_ Aziraphale thought into Crowley's addled mind, and Crowley's body thrilled at this new addition. They'd never tried telepathy before, but it was already promising. 

Exhausted, Crowley laid himself on the table, barely aware that it had suddenly been cleared of all the dishes. Tension bled from his shoulders and calves and he moaned all the louder when Aziraphale continued. How the angel could do this without so much as breaking a sweat while dressed in several layers, let alone without needing to rest his jaw, was beyond Crowley's comprehension. What mattered was that he _could_ and _did_ , unraveling Crowley every time. 

_"That's it, yes, ride my face, you talented snake."_

Aziraphale's tongue stilled, flat and wide and anchored by his lips, and Crowley canted his hips against him, head falling to one side. "Ah, _fuck!_ Angel, oh g—" Cut off by a gasp as he hit just the right angle, Crowley's jaw dropped wordlessly, brows creased with overwhelm. A hand flew down to grip at Aziraphale's white-gold hair and there was a smile on the angel's face, hidden by Crowley's crotch. He braced his palms on Crowley's lower back, supported by the arms of his chair. 

Then, Aziraphale tilted his chin forward, his tongue pressed just to Crowley's entrance, and he moaned, the sound reverberating through the demon's body. _"Oh, you taste perfect, and you're so wet—so wanton and gorgeous,"_ he gushed, words pouring into Crowley's conscious, " _I'll drink my fill of you, I will, and I'll do it again and again, till you've forgotten your legs ever closed and you're utterly boneless in my grasp."_

Crowley swore, the curt sound of it loud in his ears and the cavernous room. Thank _someone_ Aziraphale had learned to apply what he read. 

At the thickening of Aziraphale's tongue to prod into, _inside_ him, Crowley yelped. Whatever concerns Aziraphale had at this noise were quelled when Crowley rocked his hips harder, urging him deeper, _quickly, quickly._

Did the Almighty know, when She crafted mankind in Her image, that the human tongue would be the wickedest, most wonderful of all the muscles? If not, it was a happy coincidence of design versus function. 

Every nerve in Crowley's body sang, that hot, unnameable urgency coming to a head. A swelling, robust feeling that, aided by Aziraphale's clever tongue and words, made all sensation erupt at last. Crowley came, and came again, and Aziraphale stayed right where he was, supporting Crowley as he quaked. It couldn't be described as seeing stars—he was completely engulfed in that bright light, rapture and grace leaving his skin aflame and tender. His voice might have left him entirely, it was thrown up so high it could have been swept away by the wind when he cried out.

A while later, there was the haze. The ache of his back muscles as he was lowered, the feeling of warm hands caressing his hipbone and cupping the delicate skin between his legs in a comforting way. It felt good, it felt like Crowley's throat was shot. Still, he swallowed, lifted his head just enough to see his partner, and rasped, " _Hell_ , Aziraphale."

A huge, happy smile spread across the angel's thoroughly moistened face at Crowley's words, and his laughter was adoring.

  
  


Some time later, they still hadn't left the table. The chair was miraculously much larger and softer than before, and most of the silver and china had been relegated to their cabinets, clean as ever. Crowley was properly in Aziraphale's lap, as coiled as a serpentine humanoid could muster. The smoking jacket had been draped over him, held in place by Aziraphale's hands stroking over his back.

 _"Are all your afternoon teas like this?"_ Crowley thought aloud, his face tucked into Aziraphale's neck.

"You could just speak, Crowley."

_"Can't. Shan't. You made my larynx combust."_

Aziraphale scoffed. "I rather think that was your own fault. And you got my trousers all wet."

"Now that," Crowley said, contradicting himself as he leaned back to a more conversational position, "was _your_ doing." His voice still had a bit of roughness to it, but then again, it always did, like the thrum of a motorcycle engine.

"I even had a napkin down," Aziraphale murmured, doing a terrible job of pretending to be petulant as Crowley hooked a finger inside his collar to lay a few kisses on his neck. "Mm, that's nice."

"Thanks for teaching me my _manners_ , angel. Shall I return the favour?"

Aziraphale swept a hand up through Crowley's short red locks, guiding him so his cheek rested on the meat of Aziraphale's shoulder and their gazes could meet. "No, that was all I needed." 

There was an impishness to the smile Crowley offered. "But was it all you wanted?" 

Aziraphale blinked, as though the thought had never crossed his mind. Impossible, given he was nothing if not a hedonist. "I suppose there is a distinction, yes," he admitted, which made something in Crowley surge and his mouth dry up.

The demon sat up, ready to jump into action. "To the bed, then?"

"We can savour this a while longer, can't we?" Aziraphale asked, catching one of Crowley's hands in both his own. "I do love having you in my lap like this."

That was fine too. Crowley relaxed back into the angel's chest, mollified by his request and the meditative sweep of Aziraphale's thumb over his knuckles. He slumped into the seat, head draped heavily over Aziraphale's shoulder as he made a valiant attempt to meld his body to the angel's.

"Although…I am quite parched," Aziraphale said, interrupting the brief silence and, snapping his fingers to fill the teapot again. "Would you be a dear and pour me a cup?"

Crowley grinned and complied easily. Moments later a drink miracled to just the right sweetness and temperature appeared in his hand. "Always."

Aziraphale smiled delightedly, but there was a flirtation to his sideways glance.

Tea, after all, was now much more than just a way to pass an afternoon. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and Kudos are much appreciated.♥︎
> 
> You can find me on my [main](https://twitter.com/ingthing) and my [18+](https://twitter.com/ingafterdark) Twitter profiles.


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